"Speed dating": a foray into flash fiction

The art of the short story is distinct from longer form fiction, and flash fiction—short short stories—even more so; I experimented in the field a little while ago

A few years ago, when I was briefly between jobs, I set myself a challenge: writing short stories. I had long taken as read that it was not a genre that suited me. I like reading short stories, and have come across some excellent collections: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Snows of Kilimanjaro by Ernest Hemingway, Breakfast at Tiffany’s by Truman Capote, Kiss Kiss by Roald Dahl, For Your Eyes Only by Ian Fleming, First Love, Last Rites by Ian McEwan.

But I knew—know—that in terms of fiction I am stronger at dialogue and description than plot, which is a handicap for an aspirant short story writer. I take pleasure in admitting that I must have been to some extent wrong, as I have had stories chosen for the first two anthologies published by the Writing Salon, the Soho-based creative writing group I go to every month run by my great friend and source of much inspiration and advice, Mark Heywood. Lips on Unfamiliar Skin and Twelve Hours to Del Mar are both excellent volumes, and you can even skip over my contributions if you want to.

Perhaps it’s fairer to say the format stretches more than longer-form writing might. Those who have had the dubious honour of editing my work will know that prolixity tends to have the upper hand over concision.

I became particularly interested in the discipline of flash fiction—no, it’s not filthy, though that was my first thought too—otherwise known as micro-fiction or short short stories, generally somewhere between 750 and 1,500 words. It is taken to its extreme in nanotales, which are usually only half a dozen to a dozen words (that level of compression is beyond me). Think of the celebrated six-word tale usually but erroneously attributed to Ernest Hemingway, which, though over-familiar, remains quite brilliant in its depth and power: “For sale: baby shoes, never worn”. Whoever did compose it is worth honouring. Oh to have your work plausibly attributed to Hemingway!

As much as an intellectual and creative task as anything else, I tried my hand at the more expansive end of the flash fiction spectrum, using 1,000 words as a rough target, and wrote a few pieces, started but did not finish a few more. Then work resumed, life got in the way as it will, and when I started writing again at any length it was non-fiction opinion pieces which are currently my daily occupation. Creative writing, whether the Great Novel or other more ephemeral artefacts, has regrettably taken a subordinate place for the moment, though I don’t neglect it entirely.

Recently I’ve noticed conversations about Substack as a medium for fiction. I use it, both as a writer and a reader, almost exclusively for non-fiction, but, as one year draws to a sputtering close and another one comes into view, and the mind turns to new challenges, refreshed energy and greater and different success, I thought it was worth testing the water and revisiting some old pieces which never found a home at the time. What follows has, I think, stood up reasonably well, and if I didn’t think so, I wouldn’t weigh down the ether of cyberspace any more than it has been already. I will be interested in readers’ reactions.

Speed dating

His eyes were light brown like—what was the line?—Canadian whiskey. Kind, and funny, hinting at a good sense of humour.

I hadn’t known what to wear for this ordeal, and had eventually gone for a blouse and my best pair of jeans—smart/casual, I supposed. I’d been relieved to discover that most of the other people had aimed for the same target, some more successful that others. But no-one had turned up in a dinner jacket.

I held out my hand, having had a gulp of wine just before he moved over to my table.

“I’m Eleanor,” I said, already conscious of my accent.

He shook my hand.

“I’m Stephen. I’m a—” Voice clipped, polite, public school.

I shushed him with a finger on my lips, like the librarian I am.

“Against the rules,” I reminded him. “No personal details.”

He laughed. He was good-looking, not outrageously so, but well put together, and, I guessed, in his early thirties. I wondered, as I had with several of the participants, why he felt the need to do it this way. He surely can’t have been short of offers.

“Sorry,” he said. “So, how has your evening been so far?”

“Boring,” I replied, pulling a face. It was true, but I’d have said that anyway, to make him feel special. “I don’t know why I do this, really. I don’t, often,” I added hurriedly, so that I didn’t sound like a desperate spinster.

“Oh, it’s fun, don’t you think? Meeting new people, ten minutes each, seeing what you can draw out of them?”

I almost laughed then. Meeting new people was my very idea of Hell. What would they be like? Would they like me? Would they hate me? Worst of all, would they pity me? And anyway, what would we talk about? There might be nothing. I had no work ‘chat’ that was of interest to anyone—you don’t get much mileage out of stamping books and cataloguing journals—so I’d end up nodding along politely to other people’s tales of closing a big deal, or saving a patient’s life, or teaching a brilliant class.

“How far round the room are you?” I asked.

“You’re number three. But the prettiest.”

I looked down, embarrassed.

“Sorry,” he said, “but it’s true. I noticed you when I came in.”

“You’ve definitely done this before,” I countered.

“Yes, but not often. My wife died two years ago. That’s not a play for sympathy—but it seemed a good way to get back into the game, if you like. Sorry, no personal details, I know.”

“Oh, sod that.” I looked at him anew. As well as kindness and humour, I thought I discerned sadness in his eyes now. Maybe that was projection. “I’m a… Don’t laugh, I’m a librarian,” I stuttered.

He smiled. His eyes crinkled at the sides; maybe he was older than I thought.

“I’m an anaesthetist,” he said. “I work at Bart’s. Why would I laugh?”

“Come on. Librarians don’t have a reputation for Hell-raising, unless it’s Katharine Hepburn. We’re prim and proper and quiet.”

“Well, I don’t think you seem any of those.”

I bent my head again. “Thank you. I’m no Hepburn.”

“I’m no Spencer Tracy, but it doesn’t stop us trying.”

“You know they never married?” I said. “Together for 26 years, but she didn’t go to his funeral. Out of respect for the family. Sorry. Boring.”

“No,” he said softly, “I didn’t know that. You’re a fan, I take it?”

I smiled. “Huge. Have you ever seen Desk Set? She’s the patron saint of librarians in that film. If I could be anyone, I’d be Bunny Watson.”

He shook his head. “I’ll look it up. Not much of a film buff, I’m afraid.”

My heart sank a little then. Since I work in a cinema library, film is a huge part of my life, and there are few pleasures greater than sinking into one of the seats, usually at the front if I’m with my friend Alec, and losing myself for two hours in something beyond my ordinary life. I’ve got pretty eclectic tastes, I think, but the golden age—well, I think it is—of the late 1950s and early 1960s is what draws me back again and again. Hepburn, Tracy, Brando, Bacall, Bogart: I could spend all day in front of the silver screen.

“So,” I said, “you knock out people for a living.”

He did a stage wink. “Certainly do, sweetcheeks.” Then his face fell and he coughed with embarrassment. “Sorry, that was crass. Yes, I suppose I do. I thought about becoming a surgeon, but I have a slight tremor, so that was out, obviously.”

“Is it fulfilling?”

He paused for a moment. “Yes, I suppose so. You’re part of a process. And the overall process is doing good. So yes, yes it is. I think.” He grinned, and it lit up his face. “Not my most articulate paragraph ever.”

At that point, the bell rang, to indicate that we should all move on to our next—is ‘assignments’ the word I want? I smiled at him, hoping it wasn’t too toothy.

“I’ve enjoyed this.”

“Me too,” he replied. “Look,” he said, rummaging in his wallet and producing a card, “I’d like to do it again, with a bit more leisure time. Up to you, of course, but phone or e-mail if you like.” He gave me the slightly dog-eared rectangle of paper. “No offence taken if you don’t. But it would be nice.”

I took it from him. “Thanks,” I said, without committing myself either way, as I gathered up my bag and coat to move to another table. “It was nice talking to you.”

I was wearing flats, but suddenly it felt like I was in heels. I thought I probably would.